Golden
Summer Road Trip
Written by Mary Victoria Johnson
Copyright © 2018 by Abdo Consulting Group, Inc.
Published by EPIC Press™
PO Box 398166
Minneapolis, MN 55439
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
International copyrights reserved in all countries.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without
written permission from the publisher. EPIC Press™ is trademark
and logo of Abdo Consulting Group, Inc.
Cover design by Christina Doffing
Images for cover art obtained from iStock
Edited by Rue Moran
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Johnson, Mary Victoria, author.
Title: Golden/ by Mary Victoria Johnson
Description: Minneapolis, MN : EPIC Press, 2018 | Series: Summer road trip
Summary: Travelling to Canada to work as a tour guide was supposed to help Lewis figure out what to do with his life. But hitting British Columbia’s Cariboo gold rush trail with a group of seniors goes from a chore to plain dangerous when a girl without a past joins. Soon, Lewis confronts a tangled mess of lies, accusations, and feelings he was totally unprepared for.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016962614 | ISBN 9781680767223 (lib. bdg.)
| ISBN 9781680767780 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Adventure stories—Fiction. | Travel—Fiction.
| Tour guides (Persons)—Fiction. | Parks—British Columbia—Fiction
| Young adult fiction.
Classification: DDC [FIC]—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016962614
This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.
Also for Mum
This one’s for all the broccoli and cheese.
DEAR HEY CHRISSY,
Thanks for writing! You must be the last person in the world to still send letters. Not that it’s a bad thing. I have to say, it’s harder to reply to a letter than an email, though.
Canada is great so far. It’s so beautiful I’m surprised there aren’t more people moving here. Aside from crushing loneliness the colder weather, I’m doing well. I’ve got my first tour starting next week. I’m kind of nervous, but at the same time, I’m dying to get started. There’s only so much classroom time I can stand, considering it’s summer.
Sorry I don’t have more to say. Nothing happens It’s been super laid-back, aside from training. I’m sure I’ll have more to say once I actually start working! Be nice to Mum, do your homework, etc. No boyfriends until I get back, okay?
Miss you
Love
Talk to you later!
Lewis
I reread the letter twice before sealing it in an envelope, making sure there weren’t any errors for Chrissy to latch onto and berate me for. At fifteen, my sister was three years my junior, but that never stopped her from making sure I remembered we graduated together. She was starting university this coming September, majoring in biophysics. And I was here, earning less than what my rent cost, trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.
To balance out health and hunger, I decided to jog to a nearby pizza parlor for lunch after posting the letter. Then, triple checking I’d gotten the time right, I hopped on a bus to my boss’s “office.” The neighborhood was typical of North Vancouver, a mismatched collection of multimillion-dollar West Coast contemporary styles and more demure split-levels. Some were hidden behind massive hedges or wrought iron gates, others boasting wide open driveways to show off a collection of cars that were worth more than I’d ever touch in a lifetime. This was the land of new money, nestled in the space left between the cedar forests, mountains, and Pacific Ocean. It was also home to my employer.
I stood at the driveway of one of the neighborhood’s more luxurious properties and pressed the buzzer on the gate.
“That you, Crake?”
“Uh, yes.” Should I have added “sir”? Or is that too formal? Is it possible to be too formal? I mean, I already have the job. It can’t matter too much.
The gates swung open. I realized then I was wearing my athletic gear. Excellent planning as per usual on my part.
The boss didn’t open the door; his assistant did. Because yes, he was rich enough to have a live-in assistant.
“Lewis Crake,” she smiled, pronouncing every syllable of my name. “Can I take your coat?”
“It’s the middle of July,” I pointed out. “I’m not wearing a coat.”
“Tea, then?”
“Water would be fine.”
“Ice?”
“Sure.”
“Lemon?”
“Rachelle,” my boss laughed from somewhere else in the house. “Let the poor boy go. Just come through to the main sitting area, Lewis.”
The inside was all white marble and glass, and stunk of some artificial air freshener. It was the type of place I imagined was freezing in the winter.
David Swierenga lounged on a clear plastic chair, his bald forehead glinting in the sunlight. He could’ve been anywhere between thirty-five and sixty-five, depending on the angle, and I’d never found any evidence pointing to which end of the spectrum he likely belonged in. I knew from our previous meetings that he’d come from money, then doubled it as a real estate specialist, and now ran a multitude of small businesses just for fun. One such business was Golden Tours. That was why I was here.
“Enjoying the weather?” Swierenga asked, gesturing to the panoramic view. The skyscrapers of downtown Vancouver could just be seen through the trees of his neighbor’s garden as well as the waters of Burrard Inlet, riddled with cargo ships, yachts, and sightseeing vessels.
“It’s a different kind of heat than Australia,” I said. “But yeah, I’m enjoying it.”
“Just you wait until winter. Ever experience subzero?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never even seen snow.”
Swierenga’s grin widened. “Well, you just might have that pleasure sooner rather than later. Which leads us back to why you’re here. You said you were willing to take our next tour group northward?”
I nodded, even now questioning how ready I actually was. I knew everything there was to know—from a tourism perspective at least—about half the municipalities in British Columbia. I’d taken numerous workshops and courses, I’d successfully completed a series of tests and interviews for Swierenga and, on occasion, Rachelle. But when it came to practical experience, I had nothing.
“Cariboo Gold Rush Trail,” Swierenga said, laying out a map with a flourish. “Popular, nothing too complicated about the route. You aced this section on my test, if I remember correctly.”
I nodded again. “I—”
“Now, I like you, Lewis. I don’t usually hire foreigners, but you’ve got it. Charisma, charm, whatever kids are saying these days. And ultimately, that’s all a tour guide has to have. So long as you make the paying guests happy, the rest is inconsequential.” Swierenga leaned forward, and something in his stomach made a sloshing sound. “Good tour guide, good tour. Bad tour guide, bad tour. It’s that simple. This company is my pet—that’s why I’m talking to you directly, not through a manager—and the reputation of it rests on your shoulders. Nowadays, one dissatisfied customer can be enough to sink an entire ship. You get where I’m going?”
I’d had to bite my tongue to stop myself from pointing out that Golden Tours ran an ad in an Australian magazine, specifically targeting students who might want to work a summer abroad. I shook that thought away and grinned. “Of course. I’m honored you’ve put so much trust in me already.”
Swierenga slid back in his chair,
basking in the flattery. “Mostly old fogies on this route, anyway. They ask a lot of questions, but they don’t get too caught up in the facts. They’re suckers for bright young things like you, kid. Just make sure you keep an eye on health concerns and all that. Nobody’s died on my watch, yet.”
I managed to force a chuckle. “Nor on mine, yet.”
“Well, all right.” Swierenga stood up, offering me a hand to shake. “Give me or Rachelle a call if you have any issues. Oh, and before I forget, here’s your advance. Do your job, and I’ll see you in two weeks to hand over the rest.”
My hand closed around the envelope. Rent, food, flights.
“Thank you,” I said. “I won’t let you down.”
“Home” was a basement flat in a shabby complex in the more industrial part of outer Vancouver. Chrissy pointed out to me that I was paying more to live here than she was paying for tuition (pretending she didn’t have a scholarship, of course), and Dad even calculated how nice a car I could’ve bought instead.
“You’re wasting the best years of your life,” he’d told me. “You’re going to come home more broke than your Uncle Stewart, and with what to show for it?”
I remembered arguing that I was going to Canada, not some rinky-dink resort on a Queensland beach. He’d retorted by saying that if I wanted to travel, I should do it properly, not waste all my money boarding in one of the world’s most expensive cities for a job in the tourism industry. But, me being me, I’d gone anyway. I was still trying to convince myself I’d done the right thing.
“Cole? You here, mate?” I called, hitting a light switch with my fist on the way in. It took a solid minute to turn on.
No answer. I was safe. My roommate commuted to a nearby college every day, which worked out well for both of us. We were rarely ever in together; I didn’t even know his last name.
I ended up lying on my bed for far too long, staring at the ceiling in an effort to summon enough energy to do something, anything.
Dang, I miss home.
Eight weeks. That was all I had left. Swierenga had hinted at being able to get me another job over winter if I’d needed it, and as pathetic as it was, I wasn’t sure if I could mentally last that long. Despite Vancouver being one of the most beautiful places I’d ever visited, I wasn’t able to shake off the feeling of not belonging. That was why I needed to go on this tour. I needed to keep busy, I needed to get my head in the game and man up.
I was eighteen. Less than two months ago, I’d still been in high school, living off my mother’s cooking and playing BS bingo instead of listening in business class. Now I was paying rent and cooking my own meager meals and, in a matter of days, would be responsible for thirty seniors.
My headache was what eventually drew me out of bed. I stumbled to the kitchen and threw back a couple of Tylenol, then decided to make eggs while I was up. Before I knew it I had a stack of pamphlets and maps spread over the kitchen table and was scribbling down notes on anything I might be asked in regards to our itinerary. Lillooet, Williams Lake, Barkerville, Quesnel . . . historical facts, modern facts . . . local populations, First Nation’s culture, resources . . .
“Whoa,” Cole said over my shoulder, munching on a burrito the size of a pencil case. “You got homework, kangaroo?”
“Call me that again and I’ll deck you, moose.” I checked the time. Nearly midnight already. “When did you get back?”
Cole shrugged. “No idea.”
I packed my things away. “You’ll have the place to yourself next week, by the way. I’ve got my first real tour.”
“You’re still paying rent though, right?”
“Yeah, don’t worry.” I sighed and stretched. “Good night.”
“Night.” He picked a bean out of his burrito and crushed it between his fingers. “Just so you know, Mexican food makes me crap like crazy, so—”
“Good night, Cole.”
I locked my door behind me and returned to my bed. In Australia, I’d had a massive room with a balcony overlooking a canal. This place had a window you couldn’t squeeze a cat through and an air conditioning unit that only expelled air stinking of fumes.
Positive vibes. Happy place.
So when I closed my eyes, my dreams were filled with heat and bushland and endless beaches, as far away from this dank little flat as it was possible to get.
I SLEPT A GRAND TOTAL OF THREE HOURS THE DAY before the tour, mental checklists and doubts and stupid last-minute worries keeping me awake long after I’d gone to bed. My alarm woke me up at four a.m.
Urgh . . .
I threw a couple of frozen waffles in the toaster and selected some lively music on my iPod, trying and failing to garner a shred of energy. Then I got dressed in baggy jeans and an awful logoed T-shirt that was supposed to be gold but achieved something closer to mustard. I’d only been provided with one for the entire five-day trip, so unless there were laundry services in the sticks, it was only going to get worse from here.
Despite it being midsummer, it was still dark outside. A sliver of light was rising in the east, blocked for the most part by the mountains, but the streetlamps and traffic lights still glowed brightly. As with most cities, Vancouver did not respect the silence of nighttime. In fact, when I caught my bus, there were at least half a dozen others already sitting there.
The tour bus itself was leaving from a strip mall parking lot in one of the ugliest parts of the city, directly underneath a SkyTrain bridge and next to a business park that was big enough to be its own country. For people traveling here from elsewhere, it wasn’t exactly a good first impression of British Columbia. The bus, at least, was nothing more or less than what I’d expected. A typical silver-gray coach sporting tinted windows and the garish logo of the tour company. The driver was already there, a portly middle-aged man with an olive complexion and sour expression.
“Crake?” he snapped, before I’d even crossed the parking lot. “You’re late.”
I glanced at my watch. “It’s five-thirty on the dot.”
“You were supposed to be here at five.”
“Mr. Swierenga told me five-thirty. I have it written down”—I swung my rucksack off my shoulder and produced a slip of paper—“right here.”
His eyes narrowed.
I extended a hand. “Lewis.”
“Sergio. Sergio Macari.” He didn’t stop glowering at me. “You’re young, aren’t you?”
And you’re old. Yet here we are. I shrugged. “Depends who you’re comparing me to.”
“Other guides.” Sergio’s lip curled. “This lot—the seniors—will grill you like a cheese sandwich about everything. I don’t know what the boss was thinking, sending some Aussie kid who’s looking for the ‘Canadian experience’ just as much as the clients are.”
Taken aback, I stared at him for a moment. Then I gave him my politest, most innocent smile and said, “No, no, you’re right. He really should’ve hired someone who knew that the exact population of Williams Lake last year was ten thousand, eight hundred and thirty-two, and Lillooet is precisely two hundred and fifty meters above sea level. He should’ve hired someone who knew that Billy Barker, who founded Barkerville, was born in 1819 in Fenland, UK, and unearthed around one thousand kilograms of gold in his lifetime, but still managed to die penniless. And that . . . ”
It was immensely satisfying to see Sergio’s cheeks turn red with embarrassment, and even more gratifying when, unable to think of anything sensible to say, he pivoted and stormed back to the bus. I hated how pompous I’d sounded, but still . . . sometimes, a point had to be proven.
The guests wouldn’t begin to arrive for at least another hour and a half, so after stowing my bag in the luggage compartment, I went to take a look inside. The seats were blue velour, etched with those public-transit-esque squiggles meant to hide how filthy they actually were. Matching curtains hung from the windows, and an outdated television was perched near the front of the vehicle. Behind me there was a door leading to what I assumed was t
he toilet. It was pretty unremarkable, all told.
“They won’t come for another hour, yet,” Sergio told me, noticing I was hovering by the door with my clipboard at the ready. “They know we don’t leave until nine o’clock.”
“So why are we here so early?”
“Because rules are rules. This isn’t supposed to be a vacation for us too, remember? The boss doesn’t want us to forget that.”
I waited anyway, determined to make the best first impression possible. The sun had been up for several hours before the first guest arrived, a nondescript septuagenarian couple who hadn’t figured out how to print their proof of payment. Then, like they’d broken a dam, everyone else arrived in the space of fifteen minutes.
My first impression was that Swierenga had been right about demographics. The tourists were a swarm of white, gray, and thinning hair, almost all wearing sneakers and sensible overcoats and glasses with wire rims. They spoke loudly, as though Sergio and I were the ones that were hard of hearing, and either seemed to have far too much luggage or not enough. They appeared in a throng of disposable cameras, sandals and socks, ankle-length skirts, purple rinse, polo shirts tucked into belts, stooped postures, and shuffling gaits.
“And yes,” Sergio said with cruel delight, “it’s bad form if you don’t memorize their names.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I lied.
“Good.” He waved a clipboard in my face. “Considering this is your, ah, probationary tour, I wouldn’t want to have to report anything negative back to the boss.”
“He never said anything about a supervisor.”
“You aren’t supposed to know. I’m supposed to observe from the background, see how you act when you don’t think anyone is watching, etcetera.” Sergio leaned in close. He stank of relish and hair product. “But I think it’s better when you do know I’m watching.”
Lovely.
I turned away to assist a particularly ancient lady with her suitcase.
I wasn’t given much time to stew. At least half the group had forgotten or been unable to print their tickets, leading to more ID checks than an airport security barrier. There were several—well, more like a dozen—tourists with burning questions or concerns about everything from our itinerary, to toilet stops, to rabid wildlife, demanding my attention for massive chunks of time and refusing to let me go until I’d worded my answer exactly right. Some were polite about it; others treated me like a child. One man handed me a list of medical issues that was double-sided, and a trio of sisters managed to communicate that they spoke only very minimal English. They were mostly Canadians and Americans, with a few Brits, Japanese, French, and Kiwis. The youngest person I’d encountered was a sixty-five-year-old poet from Vancouver Island.
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